


Of Blood and Birthright

by hptriviachamp



Category: The 39 Clues - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, But a Healthy Dose of Scheming, F/M, Female Friendship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Treachery, but also romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hptriviachamp/pseuds/hptriviachamp
Summary: The Kabras are outsiders- invaders and usurpers that may have claimed the Madrigal throne, but they will never truly understand the land. They are not of the land and the land is not a part of them. The past matters, and whatever the Kabras may do, Amy will never forget.
Relationships: Amy Cahill/Ian Kabra, Amy Cahill/Jake Rosenbloom, Hamilton Holt/Jonah Wizard, Hamilton Holt/Sinead Starling, Ian Kabra/Cara Pierce, Nellie Gomez/Sammy Mourad
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

The message comes at night.

Thornhill Manor sits in a valley surrounded by mountains, so they can hear the echo of every horseman for miles around.

Tonight, it sounds like a vengeful storm that is headed their way.

Their guests, several old families of the south, fall silent for minutes, their voices dying down as the thundering grows louder and louder.

Finally, the thundering comes to an abrupt halt, and within minutes, they hear footsteps. 

The doors bang open, and the herald barely announces, “messengers from the royal court!” before liveried individuals bearing the Kabra coat of arms enters past him, the one in the front making his way through the sea of guests who part for him.

He stops short in front of her and Lord Rosenbloom, and deliberately turns to her first and bows deeply, before doing so to him.

If Lord Rosenbloom notices it, he does not say anything (he has, Amy rationalizes, perhaps grown used to it), and instead beckons the messenger forward to take the letter from him. His fingers brush against the blood red of the seal, then they trace over the name of the addressee, the addressor. Her Lord Husband has always been anything if not a deliberate man.

Finally, when it seems as though the entire hall is about to burst with impatience, he gently opens the letter and scans the words on the page.

The hall watches with bated breath, and suddenly, Amy knows what’s coming before he announces it:

“The king is dead.”

The sharp gasps that occur throughout the room tell Lord Rosenbloom that perhaps he should have been less blatant in his wording. So he hastily adds in greater detail:

“His Grace passed three nights ago of an unknown illness- may God rest his soul.” He inclines his head as if in prayer, but Amy knows he- and most likely the entire room- is doing anything but that. Nonetheless, they follow in bowing their heads for a moment of silence.

Lord Rosenbloom finally raises his head and continues on, more quieter now, “and of course, long live the new king.”

This is echoed less than heartily, and Amy wonders if the messengers, who are still lingering in the hall, will report this back to their master. 

Eventually, the chatter starts up again, but Amy remains silent, turning to observe her husband.

The slight hunch in his posture, his downturned lips, and the furrowing of his brows indicate that there is something more- something he is not about to share just yet with their friends and family.

And sure enough, as they both stand to retire to their chambers, he leans slightly forward, his lips nearly brushing against her ear, and murmurs, “We have been summoned.”

* * *

Their coupling that night is far more thorough that it has been in a long time. 

Amy wonders if it is the excitement of the dead king (who was despised by most of the south) that spurs Lord Rosenbloom on, or his desire see Amy with child as soon as possible, now that the need for an heir is possibly more important than ever. 

Amy accepts his attentions, dutifully as always, but watches in mild surprise as her husband makes no effort to leave her chambers after the deed is done, as he usually does.

Instead, he rolls off of her, and they lay next to one another, sprawled on their backs, staring up at the dimly lit ceiling.

“The Kabra prince,” Lord Rosenbloom speaks suddenly, “he was betrothed to you once, wasn’t he?”

_ He’s now the king-to-be,  _ Amy thinks, briefly bemused.

“Several years ago, before-” Amy breaks off, but there is no need for her to go any further.

Everyone in the Madrigal Kingdom remembers the fire and the destruction of the old castle, the story of Queen Hope running back in after her beloved husband, refusing to remain in this world without him. The story has been repeated so many times, it is as though it's been burnt into their collective consciousness. They know full well the death of hundreds in the flames, and the blood-stained Madrigal throne Vikram Kabra had seized soon afterwards. 

And they will never forget the whispers about a lone carriage that escaped from the castle with the Dowager Queen Grace and her grandchildren, the prince and princess of the realm who had shortly been stripped of their lands and titles, and along with that, released from betrothal pacts that had been made in their names.

“What do you remember of him?” Lord Rosenbloom asks now.

_ Prideful, silver-tongued, so sure of himself, even as a little boy, despite being a mere lord while I was the heir to the throne. _

“Not much. I was but a little girl when I last met him.”

Amy can sense Lord Rosenbloom’s disappointment, but he continues.

“He has called near every noble in the land to Castle Kabra.”

“For the funeral, I suppose,” Amy says, not even believing her own words. Where Ian Kabra was concerned, even as a boy of seven, there was always more than met the eye. There was always an ulterior motive. 

But Lord Rosenbloom merely shifts so that his back is towards Amy and says, “We leave for court in a week.”

“Into the viper’s nest,” Amy murmurs, her eyelids slowly beginning to grow heavy. Her husband does not respond.

She imagines her grandmother would have laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, their arrival seems hardly noteworthy.

The old Cahill castle- now Castle Kabra- is teeming with carriages and courtiers that have been summoned from all corners of the Madrigal Kingdom.

Amy’s breath catches in her throat as she sees the castle for the first time in fifteen years. The structure may be different, but the _land_ … if she closes her eyes, she still remembers the vivid blue skies, the joyful cries of children, and the beautiful grounds teeming with trees and flowers and the occasional deer.

As soon as they enter the castle, courtiers around them whisper and avoid eye contact, even as they drop into curtsies and bows at the sight of her.

It really should have been no surprise. Years ago, King Vikram had decreed that the descendants of Madeline the Matriarch should continue to be treated with the utmost respect as a way to placate those still loyal to the former Queen Grace and her kin. 

It was really nothing more than a shell of a gesture. It could never make up for the fire that claimed the lives of Queen Hope and Prince Arthur, the attempted murder of Amy and Dan as they escaped the carnage, and the meager funds they lived off of afterwards, thanks to the supposed generosity of the crown. 

But now, after years in seclusion in Attleboro Hall and then Thornhill Manor, it is still jarring to see so many people adhering to the old decree.

Amy glances at Lord Rosenbloom, who hardly seems discomfited by this. But then again, he has always remembered who he married all those years ago. Her blood and her claim are indisputable while he is just a minor noble.

As they are escorted up the stairs, several more lords and ladies bow and curtsey lowly, and Amy notices Lord Rosenbloom twitch with something akin to irritation.

Perhaps it does bother him more than he lets on.

* * *

Their rooms are spacious, even sumptuous, much to the surprise of Amy. The servants have already brought in all their belongings, leaving Lord and Lady Rosenbloom some time before the grand banquet that is arranged for tonight.

“I would have thought the Kabras would house us in the dungeons,” Amy comments, her fingers idly tracing over the intricate latticework of a screen.

“It’s all a sham,” Lord Rosenbloom scoffs from his seat on a chaise. “They know they still have to placate the southern lords loyal to us, and thus the grand apartments.”

 _Loyal to me_ , Amy wants to correct him, but she wisely remains silent. 

“I think I shall seek some respite before tonight,” Lord Rosenbloom announces before stumping away to his own bedchamber. A moment later, he calls irritatedly from the other room, “Those useless servants forgot bed linens!”

“I shall call for them,” Amy responds hurriedly, and leaves their chambers, intent on finding a servant that can procure said linens.

The problem is, there is no servant to be found- in fact, this area of the castle is surprisingly quiet, perhaps because it’s in one of the more secluded wings. 

Soon, Amy finds herself wandering through the unfamiliar hallways, having lost her way and simply trying to get back to her chambers. She turns yet another corner when she hears hushed, whispering voices- perhaps they are servants intent upon being quiet, so Amy prepares to announce herself-

And then she hears a soft, low moan- the voice of a man, coming from the alcove in the corner. Amy can make out a tall, blonde figure clad in the garb of a noble. He’s pressed against the wall by a darker-skinned man, and their lips are moving against one another’s, one hand snaking around his waist to-

Amy hastily turns around, and her stomach nearly drops to her feet when she hears one of the men mutter, “-thought I heard something.”

She rushes away before either of the men can find her.

* * *

Eventually, she finds a servant to go out and procure the linens and her husband is asleep in no time, leaving her alone in their receiving chamber.

 _I’m home_. She suddenly thinks. This may not be the same castle of her childhood, but it is on this land that she had been born and raised, where her happiest memories were made.

The truth is, _home_ is such a fluid term to her, one that she could never really bring herself to apply to the several places she had lived in her life- the old Cahill castle where she had been born, the homes of several loyalists during her time on the run with her grandmother and little brother… Attleboro Hall had come close to being a true home, but that was cut short when the Dowager Queen Grace, her beloved grandmother, had passed away and the Crown swiftly reclaimed the Hall.

Days after Grace’s death, her Aunt Beatrice had forced Amy to leave for Thornhill Manor, claiming that she did not have to exercise any responsibility over a betrothed girl of fourteen. And so Amy had been compelled to journey alone to Lord Rosenbloom’s ancestral home, Thornhill Manor, where he had lived with his younger half-brother, Atticus, and they had married within two years.

It was also the last time she had heard from Dan.

A volley of sudden knocks on the door forces Amy out of her thoughts and she hurries to open it. 

Standing before her is a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, not more than a few years older than her, attired in the plain garb of a servant. At the sight of Amy, her eyes widen slightly before she drops into a deep curtsey. 

“Your ladyship, my name is Nellie,” the woman introduces herself. “I am to be your lady’s maid during your stay here.” She pronounces her words in an accent so similar to the one Amy has cultivated after years in Attleboro and Thornhill. 

“Nellie… you are from the South?” Amy inquires.

Nellie beams and nods. “Yes my lady. I hail from Attleboro.”

“My ancestral land,” Amy smiles, warming up immediately to her. It’s nice to have a reminder of home in a place as overwhelming as court. 

Nellie is efficient enough so that she immediately begins unpacking and sorting through Amy’s gowns- the admittedly few that she owns. 

“I’m afraid I only have one gown that is suitable for the funeral,” Amy says absently and then turns to Nellie, “I don’t suppose you could dye some others-”

“-My lady,” Nellie interrupts, “there is no need to observe mourning anymore.”

Amy frowns. “I do not understand.”

“I mean-” Nellie speaks in cautious, halting tones, “-the funeral has already taken place.”

“The king is buried?” Amy asks, shocked. 

“It was done very quietly. Even us servants had no idea it was to occur until it did.”

“And do you have any idea why it was rushed, Nellie?” 

“I don’t know, your ladyship,” Nellie shrugs, smoothing out a gown and holding it out to Amy for approval. “All I know is that the queen was in a right state and ordered for the funeral to be carried out as soon as possible. Some of the upper servants were complaining about the rush- felt that it wasn’t respectful to the king.”

The dowager queen- _of course_. Isabel must have been behind the rushed funeral. Though Amy has a few guesses as to why, it is impossible to say the exact reason. Isabel Kabra has always been notoriously paranoid, and while it’s made her something of a joke in recent years, Amy knows better than to underestimate the woman Vikram Kabra chose as his wife. 

“Do the others- the other nobles, I mean- know?” Amy questions, wondering how no one has risen a fuss about not being in attendance at the most important funeral in the land. Do the Kabras have such a tight grip on the news that goes in and out of the castle?

“I would wager not,” Nellie says, and then adds with a cheeky grin, “not unless they’ve been saddled with a nosy maid like you have, my lady.”

“Oh no no,” Amy says hurriedly with a kind smile, “you’ve been a great help already, Nellie.”

Having gained her mistress’s approval, Nellie looks around furtively before leaning in. “Actually, some say-” she confides lowly, “-that the _coronation_ has already happened as well.”

This time, Amy lets out an incredulous chuckle, too bemused to fully comprehend this extraordinary breach in protocol. The coronation of a monarch is meant to be a grand occasion, one for the people as much as the nobles and the royal family, to usher the land out of mourning and into a new era of hope. How could the Kabras have so flagrantly disregarded the traditions of this land?

The answer comes to Amy as Nellie finishes dressing her for the banquet:

The Kabras are outsiders- invaders and usurpers that may have claimed the Madrigal throne, but they will never truly understand the land. They are not of the land and the land is not a part of them. 

The past matters, and whatever the Kabras may do, Amy will never forget.


	3. Chapter 3

The main hall is resplendent in silver and red, the Kabra colors. Courtiers, torn between wearing their finest clothes and black to show deference to their late sovereign, are wearing a mixture of both. 

Amy and Lord Rosenbloom make their way through the crush of courtiers to stand and wait for the royal family.

They do not have to wait long. 

The trumpets sound and a herald announces with much pomp, “Her Highness, the Princess Natalie!”

The courtiers are mostly disappointed, but they take care to hide it as they bow and curtsey to a young woman who would have otherwise been considered stunningly beautiful, had it not been for the rather smug smirk adorning her face. She is trailed by an assortment of her ladies, the chief among which is a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Amy- fair with auburn hair and light-colored eyes.

The trumpets sound once more. It strikes Amy that she will likely be hearing much of it now that she is at court.

“Her Grace, the Queen Mother!”

While the crowd had permitted themselves to quietly talk even as the princess entered, they now fall into complete silence when the Queen Mother walks into the room. 

Clad in a gown of black crepe and lace, Isabel Kabra strides into the hall alone in a striking contrast to her daughter.

_ A tragic figure _ , Amy thinks, but just then, Isabel’s gaze flicks towards Amy and something bitter and jagged flashes within her eyes. She takes her seat at the head table as the courtiers remain in their bowed positions.

They know what is to come. 

The trumpet sounds a final time, and with grave solemnity, the herald announces:

“My lords, His Grace, Ian, King of the Madrigal Kingdom!”

The shocked murmurs of the court carry across the room. So it is true that Isabel Kabra had urged for her son to be crowned before the appropriate period of mourning could be observed- or perhaps the young prince himself had ordered it.

_ What are they afraid of?  _ Amy wonders as she chances looking up to see their newly-anointed sovereign. Is their grip on power more precarious than they feared? It makes sense to some degree- a crowned king has a much stronger mandate than an uncrowned king-to-be.

When she finally sees him, the first thought to go through her mind is a rather bemused,  _ He’s grown up now _ . Until now, she’s only thought of him as the quick seven-year old lordling she could never keep up with.

But now, he’s grown up, and as he walks into the hall, he seems to exude a sense of calmness that barely hides the raw power Amy feels crackling in the air. His amber eyes are trained solely forward even as his lips curl into a benevolent smile to acknowledge his subjects.

“You may all rise,” he tells the assembly once he is in front of the high table.

“My lords and ladies,” he begins, “I trust you have had a pleasant welcome in our castle and find your accommodations suitable. Two weeks ago, my beloved father and your king passed away, and we, the Queen Mother, Princess Natalie and I, were greatly saddened by it.”

He pauses purposefully, even as his sonorous voice continues to echo through the hall. 

“I mourned the king along with each and every one of you but time came for me to take the reins of power sooner than I had expected. For beyond these walls, enemies lay dormant, waiting for the slightest whisper of weakness so that they may act against us.”

Amy can hear several courtiers’ breath hitching- perhaps in light of the new information on these alleged enemies, or perhaps because the king is about to admit-

“Yes, I was crowned a week ago,” the king continues, and this time, even he is powerless to the sudden burst of whispers that are just as quickly hushed, “-with Her Grace the Queen Mother and the Lord Archbishop present, and I have taken on the full burden of responsibilities so that I may do my best to protect this great land from our foes.”

"I know I am young and untested," the new king says in a remarkable show of contrition, "and I have much to learn-" at this, he makes a show of brightening up, "-which is why I know each and every one of you will be able to guide me in the coming months from here. In the meantime, I hope you all enjoy tonight and all the nights to come!"

"To King Ian!" A more zealous supporter among the lords cries, and everyone else has no choice but to join in and raise their glasses in a toast to their king, who wears a triumphant smile as he raises his glass. 

Meanwhile, Amy’s stomach rapidly sinks as she takes in the meaning of his words.

_ “In the coming months from here…” _

The king hasn’t just appealed to the nobles. He intends to keep all of them here for the foreseeable future so that he may watch over them.

Amy scans the crowd around them, most of them unconcernedly taking part in the food and festivities, unaware of what is to come. 

They may all be in a gilded cage, but it’s still a cage- and they’re the king’s prisoners. 

* * *

Some time later, after the food has been eaten and the first rounds of wine and ale have been drunk, Amy finds herself on the arm of her husband as she is introduced to various other nobles.

“This is Lord Hamilton Holt, and his wife the Lady Holt,” Lord Rosenbloom tells her as she is faced with a handsome couple around their age. Holt… she vaguely recollects a blustering, older man whom she had been told was Lord  _ Eisenhower  _ Holt, one of the foremost nobles in the land. There had also been twin female Holts, both of whom served the Princess Natalie. 

Amy curtseys even before she has the chance to look properly at the couple, but when she rises, she can’t help but inhale sharply.

It’s  _ him _ \- one of the two men Amy had accidentally seen earlier in an embrace. Lord Holt is fair and blonde, and the auburn-headed woman Amy had observed in Princess Natalie’s retinue must be his... wife.

Amy waits for a flash of recognition in the man’s eyes as he greets her, but there is none.

“My dear Lady Rosenbloom,” Lady Holt steps forward next, kissing both her cheeks, “how lovely it is to meet you at last. My husband mentioned the uncanny resemblance, and I just knew it was you. We are, after all, cousins.”

“I had no idea, my lady,” Amy says, politely confused.

“I was a Starling before I married,” Lady Holt explains, adding, “and you must call me Sinead.”

“Then you must call me Amy- all my friends do,” Amy warmly reciprocates. The Starlings had been loyals allies of the Cahills before the fire. It seems that despite their former alliances, Sinead had managed to make a good marriage under the new regime, no doubt owning to the size of the family’s coffers.

Before she can speak anymore to her new friend, a young groom interrupts them.

“Lady Rosenbloom, the king has asked for an audience,” the groom addresses her, and Amy sees Lord Rosenbloom’s jaw clench slightly at the slight of not being asked as well, while the Holts stare curiously at her. 

Amy merely nods her head and throws an apologetic look over her shoulder at her husband before she follows the groom up the royal dais. The king is quietly talking to a tall, austere-looking man at his right shoulder, but when he sees her approach him, he waves the man away. 

“Cousin,” King Ian smiles genially at her, “You have only grown lovelier since I last saw you.”

She blinks, not at all expecting the immediate flattery or the intimate address-  _ Cousin _ rather than  _ Lady Rosenbloom _ . 

“I thank you, Your Grace, for the kind compliment,” she replies, her tone measured. 

The king’s lips quirk upwards as he surveys her through his hooded gaze. “Hardly a compliment if it’s true, is it not?”

Amy finds herself smiling despite her best efforts not to. It has been so long since anyone has engaged her like this, it seems as thought something long-dormant within her has awakened and it longs to respond to him- both the flirtation and the challenge.

“The truth must be a subjective thing, sire,” Amy responds archly, “for I recall being called a carrot-top once, many years ago.”

It is the right thing to say.

The king throws his head back in throaty laughter, causing the whole court to hush for a moment before going back to their merry-making. “You must forgive me, my lady. I was seven and something of a menace, so I’ve been told.”

Amy makes a show of playfully curtseying and says cheerfully, “you are very much forgiven, Your Grace, and might I add, I am very glad to have receive an invitation to court.”

Her tone lowers slightly near the end, to something more intimate so that there is no mistaking her meaning- whatever he would like that meaning to be. 

At that, his smile transforms into something sharper… more predatory. 

“Good,” he murmurs, “because I am very glad as well.”

The temporary spell is broken when Lord Rosenbloom appears besides Amy, having been summoned as well. 

“Ah, and you must be my cousin’s husband, Lord Rosenbloom,” the king addresses him.

Lord Rosenbloom gives a single, stiff nod. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“This is merely a formality, but a necessary one,” is all the King says before beckoning the grim man who had previously slunk into the shadows forward. “My man Spasky has some questions for you.”

Behind the man, Amy can see a court scribe listening keenly to their conversation, his quill already dipped in ink, ready to be used.

“I believe you have a younger brother, Lord Rosenbloom?” Spasky asks Lord Rosenbloom. 

“I do, my lord.”

“Can you explain why he has failed to be accounted for at court?”

Amy frowns at the sudden interrogation of her husband, but Lord Rosenbloom, to his credit, betrays no emotion as he answers baldly:

“My brother Atticus is studying to become a man of the cloth, my lord.”

The scribe quickly jots something down. 

The explanation seems to placate the king, though Spasky continues to look suspiciously at Lord Rosenbloom.

“Very well,” the king says, waving an airy hand in dismissal. “You may both go.”

Amy and Lord Rosenbloom bow and curtsey one last time before walking away. 

“I despise that man,” Lord Rosenbloom mutters as the step down from the dais, and Amy looks to him in surprise.

“The king?” She whispers, surprised because her husband rarely expresses strong emotions towards anything. 

“No,” Lord Rosenbloom says distastefully, “Aleksander Spasky.”

“May I ask why?” She questions, and to her surprise, Lord Rosenbloom is all to eager to enumerate.

“He’s a snake and a spymaster- not the sort one keeps around for  _ polite  _ matters, if you catch my meaning.”

_ Oh _ .

Out of the corner of her eye, Amy sees another lord being summoned by the king, Spasky hovering at his side, and it all makes sense:

The king is asking  _ everyone  _ these questions- checking that their entire family can be accounted for, and that there is a good reason they are not at court, in case there is even a  _ whiff  _ of suspicious activities. 

_ He wants to keep us close _ , Amy thinks, darkly amused.  _ He doesn’t trust us at all _ .

Suddenly, whatever warmth she had felt during her exchange with the king evaporates. 

* * *

As usual, his mother does not knock before entering- a rather annoying habit, Ian muses, one he should tell her to remedy. But even if the most fearsome guards stand at the entrance to his chambers, they will all be cowed at the sight of Isabel Kabra.

“Did you speak with her, Ian?”

He turns to properly face her- if there was any doubt as to whom she was referring to, it is now blatantly clear from the look of distaste that washes across her features. 

“I did.”

“And I trust you have put yourself in her good graces?”

“I believe so.”

“You must keep a close eye on her. I do not trust any child who was chiefly raised by Grace Cahill. Those Cahills do not forget,” Isabel warns him.

Ian lets out a derisive snort. His mother has always possessed a certain degree of paranoia, but now, she is living up to every unflattering description that circulates about her throughout the Madrigal Kingdom. “She is but a woman, Mother. A charming woman, but quite a nobody at court.”

“It does not matter how  _ she  _ is. Her blood and her claim are enough to grant her followers, should she choose to exploit her lineage.”

“Do not worry,” Ian smirks. “I intend to keep Amelia Rosenbloom far too busy to even contemplate her lineage.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days after her arrival at court, Amy is finally told how she will be spending her days in Castle Kabra:

“You are to serve as a lady-in-waiting to Her Highness, Princess Natalie,” Nellie tells her grimly as she fusses with the new gown that had been sent to her that morning. Apparently, Princess Natalie likes uniformity in her ladies-in-waiting.

“This is… an honor,” Amy says carefully. Despite only having been at court for a few days, she has already heard much about the princess. She’s been described as everything from beautiful and brilliant to vain and mercurial.

But then again, being a lady to the princess is a prestigious role, one Amy has no idea why  _ she’s  _ been given. 

Nellie snorts. “Pardon me, your ladyship, but no one in their right mind would call it an honor-” she pauses and looked up at Amy in faux-concern, “-unless there’s something you’re not telling me, my lady?” She adds, and Amy can’t help but giggle.

“I’m fine,” Amy says, amused. “But tell me, is she very difficult?”

This time, Nellie outright smirks. “You’ll have to find that out for yourself, I’m afraid.” 

* * *

The truth, as it turns out, is both better and worse than Amy had feared.

“I will be very clear when I say this,” Princess Natalie announces haughtily, her unimpressed gaze roving over each and every on of her new ladies, “You will all be held to  _ extremely  _ high standards as my ladies, and if you cannot, you will be dismissed with great dishonor.”

At this, most of the younger ladies look terrified, but Amy manages to keep a straight face. 

Amy had previously noticed that almost all the women who had previously served in the princess’s retinue were gone, and when she murmured this observation to Sinead, she had replied, “That is because the princess thought them too old and matronly. She told me she wanted young, unmarried ladies, and of course I had to oblige.”

The ladies themselves are all of the highest pedigree. Lady Teodora Kosara’s father is on the king’s council, and she herself is a pretty, curvaceous brunette. Lady Sophie Watson’s mother had infamously married five times, each of her husbands wealthier than the next, which afforded the petite blonde a position in the princess’s household. The Ladies Reagen and Madison Holt are daughters of Lord Eisenhower Holt, who commands the army, and are practically little soldiers themselves. They are skilled archers and riders, and Amy is positive they’ve been in a scuffle or two. And then, of course, there is Lady Holt- Sinead- who is the princess’s chief lady-in-waiting. 

Now, Princess Natalie is walked down line of her ladies, inspecting them in the manner a king would inspect his troops.

“Lady Teodora!” The princess suddenly barks, and the tall brunette answers startledly, “Yes, my lady?”

“You will adjust your bodice at once- you are to be seen as a virtuous  _ lady _ , not a whore,” Princess Natalie says sharply, and Lady Teodora embarrassedly does as she is told. 

Next-

“Lady Sophie, please remove that horrendous brooch before you stab someone with it while dancing,” the princess orders. 

Lady Sophie obliges, removing the pointy brooch that does seem rather hazardous.

That being said, Amy notes that the princess has absolutely no reservations about the daggers both the Lady Madison and Lady Reagan have poorly hidden in their skirts, and they somehow pass inspection with not a word said on Natalie’s behalf. 

She finally reaches Amy.

“Lady Rosenbloom, do something about your hair. You are no longer in the country anymore, and should wear it accordingly,” the princess sniffs. 

Amy internally sighs and plasters a smile on her face before nodding. “Yes, my lady.”

* * *

As it turns out, keeping Princess Natalie entertained is a full-time job for Amy and the other ladies.

The princess’s formal education had ended the moment she came out in court, and now, her days are occupied by playing the harp, singing, dance practice, needlework, cards, and horseback riding. This is, of course, when she is not attending the ongoing festivities at court, or finding new ways to torment her ladies.

They are all overseen by Sinead in her capacity as the senior-most lady-in-waiting, who Amy has become much closer to, as they are the eldest ladies in the princess’s service.

There is something soothing about this new routine to Amy. Perhaps it is because of the order and predictability of it all, or perhaps for the first time in her life, she can devote time to leisure and the arts. Whatever it is, she finds that she barely misses her old life in Thornhill Manor, or her husband, whom she only sees a few nights a week. 

Her husband does not seem to miss her either, as he has been given a post overseeing the cataloging of important court documents. It’s a rather menial job that involves reading hundreds of documents a day and sorting them, something the does not escape the castle gossips.

“...don’t understand how Lord Rosenbloom got such a lowly post while  _ she  _ was given the great honor of serving the princess,” Amy overhears Lady Sophie whispering furiously to Lady Teodora one day when they are all supposed to be doing needlework.

“Surely she is deserving of  _ some  _ respect, as per the decree…?” Lady Teodora replies dubiously, referring to old King Vikram’s decree that any descendant of Madeline the Matriarch is to be treated with honor and dignity.

“Nonsense,” Lady Sophie snorts. “Everyone knows the king favors her. He’s probably already-” She abruptly breaks off, realizing that the princess, who has since tossed her sampler aside and stood up, is about to speak.

Sure enough- 

“It’s a lovely day- I should like to tend to my garden,” the princess announces. 

Ah yes, one of Princess Natalie’s favorite hobbies is “gardening”, a process that currently involves yelling at a team of gardeners to plant as per her exact specifications in her corner of the royal gardens. 

Amy exchanges a look with Sinead before putting aside her needle-work and following the princess outside.

It is indeed a gorgeous day outside. After days of rain, it seems that the entire castle is ready to be out and about, and courtiers litter all corners of the gardens. 

Unfortunately, this pretty scene is somewhat marred by Princess Natalie, who immediately begins to berate a gardener for planting the roses next to the primroses. 

“Should we do something?” Lady Madison mutters to her sister, eying the crowd of curious onlookers.

“No, best if she lets it all out,” Lady Reagan whispers back.

It is then that Amy notices King Ian is making steady progress through the royal gardens along with that serpent advisor of his, Aleksander Spasky- and they’re headed right towards them.

“Sister,” the king drawls upon reaching them, watching Natalie amusedly. “Do give the poor man a break, won’t you?”

The princess sighs and dismisses the poor gardener with the wave of her hand before turning to the king.

“Brother,” she acknowledges him, curtseying along with the rest of her ladies. 

“I see you are engaged in some sort of gardening project,” he says, observing the freshly-dug earth.

“Yes, it has been the chief project of ours for some weeks,” the princess says, and something close to a smile briefly crosses over her features. 

“Perhaps one of your ladies could show me your efforts-” the king suggests, his gaze roving over the ladies before landing squarely on Amy, “-ah, Lady Rosenbloom?”

She has no choice but to nod and step forward. He offers her his arm, and they begin their walk. 

The king is not overly large or muscular, but rather, slim and elegant, and Amy can’t help but notice how natural it feels- her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, their steps steady and even.

Something tells her he is an excellent dancer.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Amy finally speaks, “but I somehow do not think you wished to see rows upon rows of recently planted seeds.”

“How astute of you, my lady,” the king says teasingly, “for as fascinating as the dirt is, my interest has been captured elsewhere.”

Amy can’t help but let out a short, disbelieving laugh. Surely, he cannot mean… 

“How are you finding your duties as my sister’s lady?” He proceeds to ask rather abruptly, and she pauses for a moment before speaking:

“I find it well, Your Grace. The princess is a lovely young woman.” Amy hopes he cannot hear the lie in her voice, if not her words. 

“That’s not all I’ve heard her ladies say,” he says knowingly, although with a playful glint in his eye.

“She’s been nothing but kind to me since I’ve been in her service,” Amy insists, now wondering if this is yet another test to prove her loyalty. Perhaps she should have been more fervent in her initial praise?

What she does not expect when the king next speaks is for genuine affection to be lacing his voice as he says, “Sisters- indeed, all siblings- are a blessing. I do not know what I would have done without Natalie in my younger years.”

Now, Amy is silent, her mind torn between her present confusion at the king choosing to confide this in her, and the the old ghosts of her past. 

“I know this is far too late,” King Ian says slowly, “but I was sorry to hear of your brother’s passing. I believe it was some five years ago?”

So this is his game- this is the reason he had separated her from her peers: It seems he is not done questioning his courtiers, or at least, questioning Amy.

How strange that she feels rather hurt by this, even though she should have expected no less from a Kabra.

“Six,” Amy hears herself correcting him, her voice wooden. “Shortly after my grandmother’s death.”

“From the same malady?” The king continues to probe.

“Yes.”

Thankfully, he does not ask any more questions, and they complete the rest of their walk in silence. 

Once they are back, she lets go of his arm, but he is quick to capture her hand and press a rather courtly kiss on it, his warm lips brushing against her gloved hand for a brief moment before he bows lowly.

“I hope I will see you at the upcoming Remembrance Ball, my lady,” he says, before leaving with Spasky. 

It is in that very moment that Amy catches sight of her husband from across the gardens, clearly having been watching them. She sees something akin to suspicion flickering in his gaze. 

* * *

Even as his advisors continue to bicker amongst each other in the council room, Ian cannot shake the image of the Lady Rosenbloom’s lovely green eyes filled with hurt the moment he had brought up the matter of her brother.

_ It was necessary _ , he tries to reassure himself, even as another part of him questions why he should care at all that he briefly upset a lady of the court- Necessary, because he had to confirm that the boy who could have been king under this new regime (not the old, for the Cahills were matrilineal and therefore the Lady Rosenbloom could have been queen regent) is dead.

His thoughts are soon interrupted by Lord Eisenhower Holt, commander of the royal army.

“Your Grace,” he speaks in his usual blustery manner, “there have been reports of multiple disturbances in the west near the border, and I would urge you to allow our soldiers to intervene.”

“What sort of disturbances, Lord Holt?” Ian lazily questions, already inclined to disbelieve him. If his mother is considered paranoid, then Eisenhower Holt is a warmonger, eager to see threats in the smallest of skirmishes and forever ready to use violence to subjugate the people of this realm. Ian, on the other hand, prefers a more  _ strategic  _ use of their military. 

“The looting of homes that belong to those loyal to you, Your Grace.”

“They are seeking out these homes purposely?” Ian asks, skeptical.

Holt now looks irritated at his request not immediately being honored. “We do not know, sire,” he says reluctantly.

“And do they have political motives?”

“We do not know.”

Ian delivers the final blow: “Do you know anything at all about this group, Lord Holt?”

“Not enough, I suppose, Your Grace,” Holt mutters after a long moment, and Ian rises.

“Then I suggest we move to adjourn this council meeting. Good day, my lords.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Remembrance Day Ball is held every year to commemorate the day Vikram Kabra claimed the Madrigal throne for himself. It is a joyous occasion for most, except for Amy. After all, the night Vikram Kabra claimed the throne was also the night of that terrible fire that claimed the lives of her parents, Queen Hope and Prince Arthur.

To this day, no one knows how it happened. The Cahills and the Kabras had been at war for some time then, and though the Kabra army’s camp had been set up mere miles away from the old Cahill castle, there was little the surviving Cahill loyalists could do after the fire had destroyed everything. By then, Vikram Kabra had crowned himself the rightful king of the Madrigal Kingdom as his line was descended from Madeline the Matriarch’s eldest brother, Luke.

If there are still suspicions about the origins of the fire, no one has brought them up in thirteen years.

_ Perhaps this is why the hall is so merry _ , Amy thinks bitterly, eying the lavish surroundings as she enters the hall in the princess’s retinue to great fanfare. Every inch of the grand hall is decorated with silver and red and gold. Elaborate arrangements of food line the outer perimeter, and where there is no food, drinks are flowing as freely as the gregarious chatter of hundreds of nobles. 

The princess makes her way to one of the small thrones to the left of the king’s throne, and her ladies disperse into the crowd.

As they do, Amy catches sight of Lord Hamilton Holt crossing the hall towards a handsome, dark-skinned man who grins at the sight of him. 

_ The other man _ , Amy thinks with a start after a few moments of wondering why he seems to familiar- he is the man Amy had seen with Lord Holt, tangled in an intimate embrace.

Amy turns to Lady Sophie, a notorious gossip, and whispers, “Who is that man Lord Holt is speaking with?”

Lady Sophie smiles coyly at her. “Interested in him, are you?”

“Interested in knowing the answer,” Amy retorts, not wanting to fall pray to one of Sophie’s juvenile rumors.

Sophie sighs and pouts. “You’re no fun, Lady Rosenbloom. That man is Sir Jonah Wizard. Half the ladies in the castle are in love with him, so good luck there!” With that, she giggles and flounces off, leaving only Sinead and herself to find a place to stand in this crush. It is then Amy notices Sinead hasn’t taken her rather bitter gaze off of her husband- and Sir Jonah.

_ She knows _ , Amy realizes, feeling a rush of pity for her friend, but now, all she can do is take Sinead’s hand and continue to guide them through the crowd.

Once they find a suitable spot, they come to a stand-still, only for a rather angry couple to occupy the space next to them, loud enough that Amy can clearly hear what they are saying.

“... yes, the house is quite empty!” A noble hisses to his wife, sounding extremely out-of-place in such a festive environment. “Some militia broke in and took everything valuable!”

“When can we leave?” His wife asks anxiously. “I want to see if they took my-”

“-We cannot,” the man says grimly, his eyes trained on the empty throne with dislike. “I attempted to petition the king himself, but that man of his, Spasky, refused.”

“That  _ Spasky _ !” His wife grimaces. “Who does he think-”

Whatever she is about to say is drowned out by the sound of trumpets blaring.

The king has arrived.

He enters with the Dowager Queen Isabel on his arm, both of them looking regal in crimson silks and black furs. Isabel takes her seat to the right of the Madrigal throne, but King Ian remains standing, clearly about to speak in honor of Remembrance Day.

“My lords!” He begins, his amber eyes surveying the crowd before him. “It has been thirteen years- thirteen years since my father sat upon this throne and declared it a new chapter in the history of this great kingdom. Since then, he spent years tirelessly working to uphold justice and truth, and I hope to one day embody those qualities he so nobly exemplified for thirteen years.”

Suddenly, his demeanor becomes noticeably more mournful. 

Whatever the king’s faults, Amy thinks acidly, he is an excellent actor. 

“Of course, we cannot forget those who perished that night either. Both Queen Hope and Prince Arthur lost their lives in a tragic accident. Let us pray for them.” At this, King Ian makes a show of bowing his head, as if in prayer, and the courtiers follow, some clearly more eager than others.

Amy is furious, attempting to hide the extent of her rage as a good half of the crowd turns towards her instead of bowing their heads. She wants her parents to hear none of these false prayers- how  _ dare  _ the king sully their memory like this!

After a long moment of silence, the king speaks, softer and more purposeful in tone.

“My father stepped up and claimed the throne, knowing it was the only honorable thing to do after such a tragedy, and for that, may he forever rest in peace.”

“To King Vikram, may he rest in peace,” the courtiers repeat solemnly, raising their glasses in a toast.

Amy’s throat feels like it is burning with the effort it takes to not scream and cry out, “ _ He was at war with my parents! Of course he coveted the throne _ ,  _ and how ‘lucky’ that he should attain it!” _

The king brightens considerably as he finishes: “And in honor of my late father and our great kingdom, eat, drink, and be merry!”

At this, the courtiers roar their approval and raise their glasses once more, toasting to their king and sovereign lord, and promptly resume their festivities. The music starts once more and a lively galliard is underway within moments as several lords seek to sweep their ladies onto the dance floor.

Lord Hamilton Holt, who realizes that he should probably be seen with his wife, even if it’s for a brief moment, crosses the floor to greet Sinead.

“My lady,” he acknowledges, bowing lowly, and then nodding his head towards Amy.

“My lord,” Sinead says smilingly, “perhaps we should take a turn in one of the dances.”

Lord Holt opens his mouth to respond, but his attention suddenly flicks elsewhere. Amy follows his line of sight to see that it is squarely on Sir Jonah who is beckoning to him, two goblets of wine in hand.

“Excuse me,” is all Lord Holt says before he hastily leaves to rejoin his paramour.

Sinead’s smile seems to wilts away in seconds.

“Are you…” Amy begins hesitantly, completely unsure of what to say.

“It’s all right,” Sinead says sadly. “I am quite used to it, even if I wish I did not have to be.”

“You wish to be with him more,” Amy nods understandingly, but Sinead lets out a frustrated sigh.

“No, I wish-” her throat hitches, “- to be with, yes, I suppose- but my husband-” she breaks off, tears welling in her eyes. Amy can do nothing but gently envelop her in a hug, and Sinead rests her head on Amy’s shoulder.

“Our very marriage hurts both of us,” Sinead whispers, her heartbroken words muffled by Amy’s shoulder. “It should not- we should never have-”

“It’s alright,” Amy murmurs to her, “It’s alright, I understand- more than you think."

“You are not happy either?” Sinead looks up and questions softly.

“Our temperaments are too different,” Amy admits, feeling a twinge of self-pity as she watches her husband who, even after four years of marriage, is practically a stranger to her. “Our marriage had been long desired by our families, so it made sense- it only ever made sense and nothing more,” she adds bitterly.

The galliard comes to a close, and Lord Rosenbloom chooses to approach them.

“Lady Rosenbloom,” he says to Amy, sounding more bored than anything, “would you like to dance?”

Thinking fast, Amy replies, “I am feeling a bit peaky, my lord,” and then proceeds to subtly gesture towards Sinead, whose attention is still on her negligent husband and his lover.

Thankfully, her husband quickly catches on and turns to Sinead. “My Lady Holt,” he says formally to her, “may I have this dance?”

Sinead’s eyes widen, but she accepts with alacrity. “Of course, my lord,” she says, beaming for the first time tonight as she takes his hand. A stately pavane starts up and they make their way to the center of the hall. 

Amy absently watches the dancing, her mind still ringing with echoes of the king’s blatantly twisted account of the events that transpired thirteen years ago. She thinks about her mother, her benevolent figure sitting on the Madrigal throne as her father sat adoringly by her side. Until the very end, their devotion to one another knew no bounds. A small part of Amy will always find comfort in the fact they even in death they remained united.

The sudden absence of music jolts Amy back to the present.

Sinead all but collapses next to Amy on the benches “Your husband is an excellent conversationalist,” she reports breathlessly, still grinning from ear to ear, rendering her even prettier. Lord Rosenbloom has gone to fetch her some wine. 

Amy is extremely surprised at her friend’s pronouncement. “Is he?” She had always found him a bit to dry for her tastes.

“We discussed the finer points of horse breeding,” Sinead explains. “I had no idea he was such an enthusiast.”

“Oh, yes, he and his father used to breed them back at Thornhill,” Amy says dismissively. 

Just then, the king, who has been watching the dancers up to this point, rises from his throne. His cinnamon skin is slightly flushed from the wine he has been consuming, and his eyes glitter playfully as he calls to the musicians, “Play one of our Northern songs- I wish to dance!”

The crowd on the floor parts as the king slowly, purposefully walks forward-

And stops right in front of Amy.

“My lady,” he addresses her, sweeping his fur cape aside and bowing lowly, “might I have this dance?”

She is about to accept- surely, she must accept?- when all of a sudden, her husband steps forward.

“I’m afraid my wife is indisposed, Your Grace,” Lord Rosenbloom says loudly as he snakes a possessive arm around her waist, the jealousy so obvious in his tone that it makes Amy want to laugh in pity. 

Amy sees she has no choice when she gives a tinkling laugh and says, “But of course, Your Grace. I will gladly dance with  _ you _ .” Then, she subtly yanks her husband’s arm off of her and accepts the king’s waiting hand.

The music begins as the king escorts her onto the middle of the floor.

The old Northern dances, danced where the Kabras hail from, are slower, more tentative and yet deliberate in every step the partners take towards and away from one another.

A man and woman can circle each other for the entirety of a dance, their hands making the barest of contact, a simple brush designed to keep both of them waiting, wanting more.

Or so, this is how Amy feels as she circles the king, their eyes locked together and their fingers briefly grazing against one anothers’. There are no free movements in this dance- everything is tense, calculated.

_ I was right _ , some distant part of Amy’s mind hazily thinks,  _ he is an excellent dancer. _

And finally the music swells in a crescendo, and they are together, united in each others’ arms as they finish the final steps. Amy can feel the warmth of his embrace, perhaps even the curious warmth in his gaze-

The music stops, and the courtiers burst into rapturous applause.

The king’s eyes do not leave Amy’s.

* * *

  
  


The next morning, Amy and Sinead breakfast together in the main hall where several courtiers have gathered, many of them looking pale and ill after a night of rather bacchanalian festivities. And yet-

“Why am I receiving dirty looks from Lord Holt and Lord Kosara?” Amy watches as the two men glare at her over their food.

“These men have daughters of a marriageable age, and the king has singled you out as a favorite,” Sinead says simply.

“I am already married,” Amy points out, the memories from last night all too fresh in her mind. After her dance with the king, Lord Rosenbloom had purposefully escorted her back to her bedchamber, and then proceeded to exercise his marital rights with her, no doubt spurred by his irrational bout of jealousy.

“They’re fools,” Sinead says dismissively, speaking of the Lord Holt and Lord Kosara. “To them, any woman who keeps the king’s interest long enough is a threat to their own schemes.”

“And you think I hold the king’s interest?” Amy cannot help but ask.

“I think,” Sinead says carefully, “His Grace pays you marked attention compared to the other ladies of the court.”

“We are cousins. We were also childhood playmates.”

To that, Sinead flatly responds, “If you think it to be out of nostalgia or shared blood, I would urge you to reconsider.”

Amy opens her mouth to protest, but Sinead continues. “It matters not. The king is not going to marry any lady of his own kingdom.”

“How do you know this?” Amy asks, curious. In all her conversations with the king, he had never once mentioned being betrothed.

“My husband told me there are secret negotiations underway for a betrothal between His Grace and Lady Cara Pierce of Pierce Landing.”

Pierce Landing is a small kingdom that borders the Madrigal Kingdom, and is ruled by the Sovereign Lord Pierce. It is known for one thing, and one thing only: its gold mines. And if what Sinead says is true, it seems the Kabra coffers are in need of filling. 

“Do you know much about the Lady Cara?” Amy asks Sinead. 

“Absolutely  _ nothing _ ,” Sinead says, perhaps more sharply than intended because she winces and clarifies, “I mean, I do not wish to know anything, because I hardly care.”

“But your husband-”

Sinead cuts Amy off. “-My  _ husband  _ and father-in-law enjoy court and all its intrigue far more than I ever have. It is not the sort of life I would want for myself.”

_ That’s not the only thing your husband enjoys about court _ , Amy thinks privately, and then asks, “Then what sort of life would you want?”

Sinead looks startled at the question. “No one’s ever asked me that,” she says, bemused, and Amy’s heart aches for her. After a lifetime of belonging to her father, and then her husband, even Sinead has began to view herself as a mere pawn- only fit to be used and molded by the men around her- rather than a woman of independent thought.

“If you could live any life, what would it be?” Amy repeats.

Sinead thinks for a long moment.

“A quiet one,” she finally says. “In the country with a husband who did not care about court, with my books and horses and nothing more.”

Amy is startled. All through her own secluded upbringing, she had never realized there were those who  _ longed  _ for her life. Is this Sinead’s years of court-bred cynicism talking, or is this what she has always desired?

They don’t speak further on it as they hurry to attend to Princess Natalie in her chambers. 


	6. Chapter 6

Amy and Sinead enter the rooms to see all the ladies working on their stitching, but the princess isn’t anywhere in sight.

As they begin their work, a small argument errupts between Lady Madison and Lady Reagan. At first, it’s conducted in low whispers, but then it gets louder. 

“... Told you Reagan, the state coffers is less filled that you think-”

“-That’s not what Papa said, Madison-”

Madison shoots back, “-But that’s Papa talking! The only person who’d really know-”

“-Perhaps we should ask the princess,” Lady Reagan says loudly, glaring at her sister, and Amy has had just about enough. 

“Ladies,” she cuts in exasperatedly, “do not bother the princess about this, because I hardly think she would care about such weighty matters.”

“Would you care to repeat that, Lady Rosenbloom?” A sharp voice questions from behind Amy. 

Of course Princess Natalie would choose this opportune moment to enter her main chamber.

All the ladies rise to hastily curtsey, and Amy speaks up, “Pardon me, my lady, I did not mean ill when I said those words.”

“And yet you did,” the princess muses, and then says in a tone of poisoned sweetness, “Lady Rosenbloom, please join me in my private sitting room.”

Amy can only do as she is told, and as soon as she enters, the princess slams the door shut and turns on her. 

“You _assumed_ what I cared about, what I was interested in,” the princess says accusingly. “And yet, you have not been in my service for a month. How much could you possibly know about me?”

“My lady, I meant no disrespect- I-”

Natalie interrupts harshly, “-You think me shallow and vain.”

Amy is aghast. Perhaps she made a grave error indeed- not only because of the assumption, but by her blatant dismissal of the princess. Is she about to be let go from service, or worse, thrown out of the castle? God knows the princess has done worse to those who she holds a grudge against.

But suddenly, the princess lets out a world-weary sigh and slumps down on a settee in a very un-ladylike manner.

“It’s alright- they all do,” she says, waving her hand towards the door where all the other ladies are congregating, much to Amy’s surprise.

Amy feels compelled to defend the others. “Your Highness, I do not think they, of all people, think-”

The princess cuts her off once more. “-They do, but I hardly like them any more than they do me.”

“Then why did you select them as your ladies?” Amy questions, somewhat affronted on the behalves of the other women.

Natalie explains, “I chose Lady Sophie because she is the biggest gossip in the castle, and I wanted to hear the rumors without being the subject of them. I chose Lady Teodora because her father is a member of the King’s Council who dislikes my brother, so this keeps him in check. I chose the Holt twins because they are the closest I will ever have to females who guard me at all times, and I chose the Lady Holt because of her moderating influence. So you see, they are like my own unwitting little court.”

Amy is dumbfound, even as the princess continues-

“My mother refuses to trade confidences with anyone but that awful Spasky woman, and I do not want to be like her.”

 _No_ , Amy thinks, now torn between fear and awe. _She’s nothing like her mother_.

Because Isabel Kabra, no matter how brilliant a tactician she has always been rumored to be, is cold and insular and refuses to confide in almost anybody.

But her daughter has understood the power of cultivating a close circle of friends and allies to surround her with- Natalie knows how to play the game far better than Amy ever thought she did.

And this, in Amy’s eyes, has just made her infinitely more dangerous than Isabel.

“Why did you choose to tell me this?” Amy finally says as she eyes her young mistress with a newfound respect.

Princess Natalie’s gaze flicks away from the window, and meets Amy’s. 

“I had a feeling you, of all my ladies, would understand,” she says all too knowingly.

Amy frowns. “Me?”

“Because,” the princess says quietly, suddenly looking so much older, and so _tired_ , “we both have been underestimated by everyone around us for so long. By virtue of our positions, we are meant to be silent, and yet, our silence only hurts us.”

 _She understands_.

A part of Amy longs to rush and envelop this brilliant, lonely young woman in a hug, tell her that she knows, and perhaps they _are_ kindred spirits, and _how long_ she has wished for someone like herself-

But whatever she is about to say is cut off by the sound of piercing screams and shrieks coming from the lower floors. 

A moment later, Amy can hear them coming closer. 

And closer. 

Amy and Natalie rush into the main chamber, where the rest of the ladies look equally confused and terrified. 

Just then, two guards burst through the doors and announce, “Princess, there has been an assasination attempt on the king. You are to remain inside with your ladies until we are given orders to let you out. We shall guard these doors.”

The room lets out a collective gasp.

“I don’t understand-” Princess Natalie says frantically, “-my brother-”

“-Until he and the others are safe, you are to remain inside,” the guard repeats before he and his comrade slam the doors shut behind them. Amy can hear the sound of swords being unsheathed, as the commotion gets closer and closer.

The princess, so sure and confident just moments ago, has now collapsed onto her knees and is clutching her neck as she takes sharp, panicked breaths. Sinead and Amy rush to her side.

“They’re going to kill us!” Natalie gasps out. “My brother, my mother-” she chokes, unable to continue. 

“My lady,” Sinead says, attempting to sound calm even as her voice quivers. “Lady Rosenbloom and I will take you to your bedchamber-”

“Damn the bedchamber, Lady Holt!” The princess shrieks. “I want to see my brother!”

“You cannot go out, my lady, for your own safety,” Sinead attempts, but the princess lets out a anguished wail. The rest of the ladies watch, horror struck and clearly unsure of what to do as the princess breaks down into tears.

Amy’s mind is racing as she eyes the small servant’s door in the back of the room.

“I can go out,” she ventures quietly, and Natalie looks up at her, a pitous expression on her tear-stained face.

“You can?” She whimpers.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lady Rosenbloom,” Sinead snaps, still attempting to haul the princess to her feet. “None of us are leaving these rooms.”

“But I can,” Amy says, this time more firm. “I shall take the servant’s door downstairs, and as soon I learn the king is safe, I shall let you know.”

“You cannot be serious,” Sinead huffs, incredulous, but the princess grabs onto Amy’s skirts and looks up at her with teary amber eyes. “Please, Lady Rosenbloom?”

Amy nods and turns to the twins. “I trust one of you can lend me a dagger?”

Lady Reagan obliges, handing hers over, and Amy slips out the servant’s door and down a narrow flight of stairs that leads to a maze of hallways in the first floor. After several turns, she is very near the dungeons. If anyone is taken there, they will have to pass by her first.

The hallway is eerily silent- it seems that the rest of the castle has now sheltered in place as well.

After some time, sure enough, Amy hears the distant sound of metal armor clanking and loud protests from a male voice.

The noise gets closer and closer until-

Amy presses herself against the wall of an alcove, the dagger in her hand raised as three men come across the corner.

It is two soldiers hauling a man between them. He is bloody and bruised, but will not stop yelling.

“I am the signal!” He shouts, something like maniacal glee in his tone even as he spits out blood. “I am the signal, you hear me? I am-” he cries out as one of the soldiers slams an armor-clad fist against his jaw.

“Dear god, man,” the soldier growls. “You’ve yelled this at the king and ever since we dragged you away- there’s no need to keep at it!”

And yet, the man persists. “I am the signal! I am the signal! I-” A soldier delivers another blow that finally knocks the man unconscious, and they haul his limp body the last few measures before they arrive at the steps to the dungeon. Amy watches as they disappear downstairs, and only then does she slump against the stone walls, her heart thudding and her breathing shallow as she replays the scene once more in her mind- the insanity in the man’s voice even as he looked completely lucid, his accent so familiar, his words- _his words_ -

 _I am the signal_.

Amy feels a rush of something- of terror, of triumph, or something in between.

Hadn’t he promised, all those years ago? _When it’s all about to begin, I will send you a signal. I swear to you Amy, you will not be alone. I will send you a signal._

The brazen assasination attempt, the whispers of a militia from the night before, the significance of the date… 

This is the signal.

_It has begun._


	7. Chapter 7

Two days after the assassination attempt, the nobles are growing uneasy, so Ian calls for a council meeting, if only to assuage some of their fears.

“Spasky,” Ian begins, “I believe you have a report after your multiple… sessions with my would-be assassin?”

Spasky nods. “Yes, Your Grace. Firstly, we have reason to believe that the man is somewhat of a madman- he kept referring to himself as “The Signal”, if you’ll recall, sire.”

Ian attempts to hide his involuntary flinch, remembering the glint of the blade that had nearly taken his life as he held an audience with the nobles. Had it not been for Lord Kosara, who wrestled the assassin down, he has a feeling he would not be so unharmed. And yet, until the man had started yelling, there had been nothing to suggest madness. No, Ian had only seen calm, unfeeling focus and determination in the man’s eyes- a killer’s instincts, he thinks, feeling distinctly queasy. 

“That being said,” Spasky continues, “he has revealed few details, even after hours of… persuasion. He claims he is a part of a small revolutionary militia- the same one Lord Holt mentioned some days ago,” Spasky adds, deeply reluctant to give any credit to the man. Ian sympathizes, especially seeing Lord Holt consequentially puff up with pride.

“And their aim is to revolt and overthrow His Grace?” Lord Alistair Oh questions.

“Of course my lord, who else would there be a revolution against?” Spasky replies sarcastically.

“I only meant to ask,” Lord Oh says delicately, “because my next question was in regards to  _ whom  _ this revolutionary militia wants to replace His Grace with.”

Much of the council inhales sharply at this, and Ian feels the sudden, hysterical urge to laugh at his men’s cowardice. This is the question  _ all  _ of them have been dancing around, in no small part due to any suspicion that could be cast upon their families. After all, many of those on the king’s council were once notoriously opposed to the Kabras before they had taken the throne by sheer chance and force. 

“It’s no doubt those Cahills!” Lord Holt booms, as usual, eager to point fingers. Lord Hamilton Holt, his son, winces at his father’s tactlessness.

Ian scoffs at this. “Come now, Holt. Most of that family is long dead- the only remaining are Lady Beatrice Cahill, who I am assured is an invalid, and the Lady Rosenbloom, who is within these walls and constantly watched over.”

Lord Holt opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it when his son glares at him.

“Besides,” Ian adds silkily, “did many of you in this very council not oppose me and my family at some point? My Lord Starlings, what say you?” He turns to the Lords Edward and Theodore Starling, whose family had been notoriously opposed to the Kabras until their sister had married into the Holt clan.

Now, all lords of the council look positively frightened at potentially being questioned next, and Ian is relishing every moment of it.

Lord Theodore speaks up, a mild tremor in his voice. “But we swore our allegiance to you years ago, Your Grace.” 

“And so did the Cahills,” Ian points out with finality, and rises. “Be warned, my lords- there are enemies both within and outside this land who mean to do me harm. We cannot rule out a single one of them. Spasky,” he calls to the man, “join me.” 

With that, he exists the council room, followed shortly by Spasky.

“What do you need, sire?” Spasky asks.

“Send two guards to be stationed near the Lady Rosenbloom’s chambers. I want someone watching her at all times.”

“Do you not trust her, sire?”

Ian replies evasively, “No more or less than the other nobles.” He makes to dismiss the man, but he continues to walk alongside him.

“What is it, Spasky?” Ian sighs. Even if Aleksander Spasky is by far his most useful servant, Ian does not relish hearing the specificities how exactly the man gathers his intelligence. Now that Ian thinks about it, almost every conversation he has exchanged with Spasky has been a grim one. 

“I thought to tell you this privately, my lord, without the others overhearing.”

“You suspect one of them as orchestrating this plot?”

“Not yet,” is all Spasky says, the dramatic bastard.

“Speak,” Ian orders, irritated.

“While we may not know their exact political motives, sire,” Spasky says, uncharacteristically hesitant, “the assassin  _ did  _ reveal the name of his master- indeed, he said but one name over and over, even under extreme duress.”

“That is?” Ian presses impatiently.

“The Outcast.”

* * *

Court has mostly returned to normal after the panic of two days ago. Everyone has been ordered to get on with their duties as usual, which is why Amy is being dressed by Nellie- so that she may attend to the princess.

And yet, Amy’s mind is tormented by the events of two days ago- the blood and screaming and his  _ words _ \-  _ I am the signal _ .

The signal.

This is what she has been waiting for- for six long years she has bided her time-

She is not blind to the two new guards attempting to surveil her rooms at all hours, but if she has to act, the time is now.

“Nellie, I have a rather delicate matter to discuss with you,” Amy begins.

“Of course, my lady,” Nellie says, her tongue between her teeth as she focuses on the intricate lacings of Amy’s corset.

“Firstly, do you have someone you trust above all else in this castle?”

Nellie looks up, surprised. “May I ask why, my lady?” Nellie cautiously questions.

Amy explains, “In the near future, I may need to send a letter- one that I would… rather not be intercepted.” Suddenly, inspiration strikes her as she probes, “Do you have a sweetheart, Nellie?”

To Amy’s surprise, her usually sensible maid flushes a deep red. “Aye, yes, I do. His name is Sammy, and he works in the stables. We are engaged to be married.”

_ There we are. _

“And would you trust Sammy with your life?”

“Above all else,” Nellie nods.

“And…” Amy hesitates briefly, “can I trust you with  _ my  _ life, Nellie?”

“Yes, my lady,” Nellie says fervently. “I swear to you.”

“Then when the time comes, I would like you to relay the instructions I am about to tell you to Sammy, along with my letter. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady.”

And Amy begins. 

* * *

Despite the strict instructions he has given to his personal guards, Isabel manages to enter his chambers once more with shocking ease, the clacking of her heels audible even before she sets foot into his private chamber where he is getting ready.

“Ian, I wish to speak with you.”

“Mother,” Ian acknowledges, not even bothering to turn around as he buttons on a navy doublet. “Has Irina tired of hearing about your various schemes?”

Isabel purposefully ignores him. “You must take action on this assassin.”

“I did not realize I had to,” Ian responds sarcastically.

Isabel plows on. “You give a show of strength- perhaps a public hanging-”

“-I do not think you realize, mother, that I am not your husband,” Ian interrupts sharply, facing her for the first time since she entered the room. “Father may have spent years listening to your heavy-handed counsel, but no more. I am king now, and I shall do things my own way.”

“Do not make the same mistakes your father did, Ian,” Isabel warns, clearly irritated at being dismissed after the years of respect she has unduly enjoyed.

“I wasn’t aware my sainted father made any mistakes,” Ian says flatly, lacing up his boots. Unless needed for state occasions, Ian generally eschews the use of a private valet to dress him.

“Your father was  _ weak _ ,” Isabel spits out in an uncharacteristically emotional manner, and then instantly looks as though she wishes she could take her words back. 

But now, Ian’s interest is piqued.

“In what way, mother?” He questions, but Isabel’s mask has already hardened once more.

“All I will say is this,” she says cryptically, “I would have tolerated any amount of infidelity, but  _ never  _ his betrayal.”

And with that, she sweeps out of his room, leaving Ian with more questions than answers as he mulls over his mother’s last words.

_ I would have tolerated any amount of infidelity, but never his betrayal. _

* * *

The nobles have all assembled, waiting impatiently.

_ Let them wait _ , Ian thinks, surveying them from the crack between the doors before he makes his entrance.  _ Their greatest wish is soon about to come true _ .

The trumpets sound and the herald announces him with the predicable pomp. He strides through the hall and steps onto the royal dais.

“Long live King Ian!” Someone shouts from within the crowd, and soon, every noble in the hall is cheering for their invincible monarch who escaped death itself, and stands before them, unharmed. 

Ian takes it all in for a few moments, his gaze drawn to a figure behind his sister. Lady Rosenbloom is smiling and cheering with the rest of them, and her lovely green gaze does not waver from his. For a brief moment, Ian imagines abandoning his speech to walk up to her and ask her what goes on behind the unfathomable depths of those jade orbs-

But he cannot.

He raises his arms to motion for silence.

“My lords,” he begins somberly. “The past two days have been trying for all of us, but I have done my very best to get you all the answers you so desire.” He pauses briefly before continuing, “After interviewing the assassin for hours, we have those answers: He has revealed himself to be sent from the Vesper Kingdom, by King Damien himself!” 

Some of the courtiers gasp, but Ian does not stop. “He also revealed that he is a member of a small militia sponsored by the Vespers, the very militia that violently looted some of your homes weeks ago.We will not stand silent in light of these provocations committed against us by our old enemy. If this matter is not resolved amicably,” Ian concludes, pitching his voice low and purposeful, “then we may be looking at war.”


	8. Chapter 8

Ian steps off the dais and leaves the room triumphantly, but is quickly intercepted by Spasky.

“Your Grace,” Spasky starts, sounding strangely concerned, “I hesitate to question you, but is it wise to mislead the nobles about the true origins of the assassin and the lootings?”

_ Ah Spasky _ , Ian thinks with an odd sort of fondness,  _ so talented in gathering intelligence, and yet so hopeless when it comes to statecraft _ .

“They will not know, and they hardly care,” Ian replies dismissively. “I have learnt much, standing by my father’s side all these years, and if there is one thing these nobles crave, it is conquest. I mean to take the Vesper Kingdom once and for all, as we should have done centuries ago after the first King Damien murdered our King Gideon.”

What remains unspoken between the two men is that admitting to an internal plot against the king will only make him look weak. A foreign enemy attempting to assassinate the king plays much better with the nobles. 

“Very well, Your Grace,” Spasky agrees, “Do you have your orders for me?”

“Yes, send for Lord Holt. I want him to assemble the troops and let them be ready.”

“Yes, sire… but what about this militia?”

“It will be dealt with. The fact that they are so close to the border between the Vesper Kingdom and ours serves us well. We shall destroy them even before our conquest begins.”

Spasky nods, adding, “The assassin has outlived his usefulness in my opinion- will you call for a public hanging, Your Grace?”

“No, have him quietly disposed of. I do not want him to inadvertently have contact with anyone outside the inner sanctum.”

* * *

  
  


Legitimacy, in theory, is fairly simple in the Madrigal Kingdom, and in most other monarchies. One inherits the throne from their parent, and that is that.

However, in practice, legitimacy is a fickle thing which can only be won through attaining the hearts of the people, or at least, the hearts of the nobles.

And the best way to win their hearts?

Why, conquest, of course. 

It is, after all, how King Vikram attained the Madrigal Kingdom, and now, many are hungering for the chance to win new riches and annex new lands. 

Indeed, it seems to be the only topic of conversation since yesterday, when King Ian announced the possibility of war with the Vesper Kingdom. The fact that it is the Vesper Kingdom in particular is also a great subject of conversation. The kingdom is shadowy and secretive, especially since they maintain a policy of closed borders. They don’t even have a standing army, and instead rely on the great deal of unsavory mercenaries within their borders to defend them in exchange for favors or coin. 

Nellie, as per usual, is a great source of gossip, especially since Sinead continues to be tight-lipped, unwilling to discuss any matters of court at all. 

Indeed, Amy thinks vaguely, Sinead hasn’t spoken to her much at all in the past few days.

Nellie is undressing Amy after a long day of attending to the princess, and gaily converses with Amy throughout the procedure especially loud since Lord Rosenbloom isn’t here attempting to hush them because of his tendency to sleep poorly at night. 

“... Many want war- other maids tell me some of their masters are practically salivating at the prospect,” Nellie confides in Amy, who is rather stupified by this.

“Is peace not the ultimate desire?” She asks, and Nellie snorts and shakes there head.

“You’d be surprised, my lady. There are the war hawks like Lord Holt-” 

“-The younger?” Amy questions, surprised. Hamilton Holt, no matter his indiscretions, does not seem like a man enamoured with blood-lust.

“The elder,” Nellie corrects. “All they want is war, war, and more war. For glory, for fortune, I’m not quite sure, but they want it.”

“I’m surprised the Queen Mother isn’t more vocal,” Amy comments, causing Nellie to look up.

“I thought you grew up with her around, my lady?” Nellie asks, startled.

“When I was but a child,” Amy corrects. “And I hardly remember her- it is the current king who was my companion, back when he was only little Lord Kabra.”

“Well,” Nellie explains, “I’d wager the Queen Mother does not want war, because she is half-Vesper herself. Before she was Lady Kabra, she was Isabel Vesper-Hollingsworth.”

“Oh,” Amy breathes. “Then her mother must have been a Vesper.”

“They say she is some sort of cousin to the current Vesper king,” Nellie confirms, finally managing to undo the last of Amy’s stays when there is a knock at the door.

Nellie goes to answer it, while Amy remains in her bedchamber for modesty’s sake. When Nellie returns, she’s sporting a mildly irritated expression.

“Well,” she huffs, “I suppose all that work was for nothing. Apparently, you’ve been summoned back to Her Highness’s chambers to get her ready for bed.”

“I thought today was Sinead’s turn?” Amy frowns.

“Lady Holt is apparently indisposed and the princess asked specifically for you,” Nellie shrugs and proceeds to dress Amy all over again before she departs for the Princess’s chambers.

Amy arrives to see the princess sitting calmly at her vanity clad only in a shift, engrossed in a book of some variety.

_ Strange _ , Amy thinks. In all her time serving the princess, she has never once seen her pick up a book.

But then again, after their talk before the assasination attempt, Amy knew better than to underestimate the princess.

“Ah, Lady Rosenbloom,” Natalie says imperiously, closing her book and beckoning Amy forward. “You may begin by brushing my hair.”

Amy comes forward and picks up a lovely ivory comb and begins using it to brush through the princess’s dark, silken strands of hair.

“I heard something rather interesting from Lady Teodora today,” Natalie says after some time.

“Did you?” Amy asks vaguely, focusing on one particular tangle.

“Lord Kosara was rather in his cups last night, and apparently, he accidentally called the assassin a Southerner.”

“Indeed?”

When Natalie speaks, it is with an exaggerated lightness, but there is no mistaking the insuations behind it: “He did. It confused Teodora quite a bit, because she thought the assassin was a Vesper and not from our lands, so she pressed her father a little and he let slip that the man sounded like a Southerner when he briefly spoke to him. Indeed-” Natalie turns around to look at Amy, “-I imagine he sounded somewhat like you.”

Amy meets the princess’s searching gaze, and wonders for a brief, heart-stopping moment whether there is an accusation in her seemingly-innocuous statement.

But when the princess doesn’t speak further, Amy says faux-lightly, “The Vespers’ reach must be further than we feared. It is a good thing then, that the king has announced the possibility of war.”

“That is one theory,” the princess permits and thankfully, does not speak further on the subject.

Amy exhales.

_ She knows _ , is the repeating mantra in her head, even as she wills herself to focus on the princess’s hair and nothing more.

But whatever the princess may know, and she must be dealt with. 

* * *

  
  


Ian often takes long walks in the royal gardens to clear his mind, and to be away from the suffocating nature of court and the crush of courtiers. The other nobles have learnt by now not to disturb him during these walks, and give him a wide berth, especially since he takes them so often.

He suddenly stops short, spotting the solitary figure of Amelia- Lady Rosenbloom- meandering past the princess’s roses, her fingers brushing against the blooms as she smiles contentedly.

He approaches her, and her eyes widen a fraction before she curtsies. “Your Grace,” she smiles up at him, and he bows.

“Lady Rosenbloom,” he smiles charmingly. “How lovely it is to see you- I’m afraid we did not get to talk as much as I would have liked at the ball,” he adds, knowing that she does not mistake his meaning when he catches sight of how her cheeks pinken most becomingly.

“I am sorry we did not get much of a chance then, Your Grace. My husband was… rather eager to retire after our dance. Indeed-” Lady Rosenbloom adds, looking mildly distressed, “I wish to apologize for that as well as the time before, during our last conversation in the gardens. You spoke with such openness, and I repaid Your Grace’s candor by closing up.”

_ She means the conversation about her brother _ . Ian remembers the discomfort and sadness she had shown when he had brought up the delicate subject, and knows he cannot fault her for that.

And as for the matter of her husband… well, the man certainly isn’t here now, is he?

“It is no matter,” Ian says, waving away her concern, “I understand your how deep your sorrow must have been. It is my mistake for bringing him up.”

“No, of course it isn’t, my lord,” she says hastily. “Actually, I have been thinking a lot about your words from that day,” Lady Rosenbloom admits to his surprise, “and you were right- siblings  _ are  _ a blessing. I have seen that with my own eyes while in service of the princess.”

“Have you?” Ian asks, torn between curiosity and mild irritation at the lady for bringing up his  _ sister  _ when they could be discussing much more pleasant things. 

“Yes, she is extraordinarily devoted to you- perhaps too devoted,” Lady Rosenbloom amends, frowning slightly. “Indeed, she seems quite scared these days, speaking of all manners of threats to you that she perceives. I think some time away from court would do her some good. I will never forget how she screamed and wept when we were all locked in her chambers, for she was so frightened for you.” 

Lady Rosenbloom shudders lightly, and Ian cannot help but be touched by her concern for his mercurial sister. 

“And you, my lady?” He hears himself ask, his voice suddenly soft and low. “Did you fear for me at that time?”

Lady Rosenbloom-  _ Amelia _ \- lets out a soft gasp when he reaches out to cup her cheek and trace her full, lower lip with his thumb.

“More than anything,” she breathes, and he swears he would have kissed her then and there, had Lord Alistair Oh not arrived in that very moment. 

Lady Rosenbloom says hastily, “I shall leave you two.” She bobs a curtsey to both of them, and then she is gone.

“Did I interrupt something, You Grace?” Lord Oh smiles genially, watching Lady Rosenbloom's retreating figure.

“Lord Oh,” Ian says, ignoring the older man’s words, “I see you got my note.”

“Yes Your Grace,” Lord Oh says, “and I must confess I am quite curious why all this secrecy is needed.”

“It is a… delicate matter,” Ian tells him. “You were my father’s close confidant, were you not, Lord Oh?”

“I certainly knew him the longest,” he agrees. “We were both from the North and I served your father long before he became King.”

“Did my father ever… pay any particular attention to a lady that was not my mother?”

To his surprise, Lord Oh laughs. “Your Grace,” he says good-humoredly, “if you have been sought out by someone claiming to be the late king’s illegitimate child, be assured that they are lying. Your father  _ never  _ strayed from your mother during the course of their marriage.”

“Hm,” is all Ian permits before inspiration strikes him. “And before his marriage?” He questions Lord Oh.

Lord Oh frowns and looks curiously at him. “You never heard…?” He trails off and then mutters to himself, “Of course, it would have been much before your time, but surely-”

“-What is it?” Ian interrupts.

Lord Oh sighs. “Before your mother, there was only ever one woman he courted: the then-Princess Hope.”

“The former queen?” Ian questions, surprised.

“Oh yes,” the lord nods and then a sudden, somber expression overtakes his features. “I was in the tent with him the night of her death,” he tells Ian quietly. “I do not think he ever stopped loving her, for he was heartbroken. He had never wished for Hope to die, especially not in that gruesome manner. Indeed, he had been prepared to negotiate peace with them that very night before news of the fire came.”

Now, Ian is downright shocked. How had he not known that his father  _ loved _ Hope Cahill, and more importantly, was willing to sacrifice the throne he so desperately desired for it, had it not been for the fire?

“Would that be all, sire?” Lord Oh asks.

“Just one more question,” Ian forces himself to say even as his mind is reeling with this new information. “Do you know if there was anything particularly important my father was working on before his death?”

Lord Oh shakes his head. “No, my lord, I do not.”

He then proceeds to leave, leaving Ian alone with his thoughts, and the words of his mother once more echoing in his head:

_ I would have tolerated any amount of infidelity, but never his betrayal. _

_ But what _ , he wonders,  _ was the betrayal? _


	9. Chapter 9

“I have some news,” Princess Natalie announces some mornings later in front of her lined-up ladies. Her tone seems rather grim- indeed, the princess herself looks quite unwell. Her eyes are rimmed red, and there is a hollowness to them that was not previously there. “I am to be given my own household- in St. Lucian’s Court.”

“Congratulations, my lady,” Lady Madison blurts out obliviously, and the princess doesn’t even bother to hide her displeasure.

“No,  _ not  _ congratulations,” she snaps back. “My brother thinks it unsafe for me here and refuses to believe the  _ real  _ threat, so I’m practically being exiled!”

“My lady,” Sinead speaks up, attempting to soothe her, “it is a great honor to be set up with your own estate. I am told St. Lucian’s Court is a lovely castle in its own right.”

The princess lets out an irritated sound of dissent, but doesn’t respond.

Amy, on the other hand, cannot be more relieved. Court has gotten too stifling in the past weeks, and she is more than ready to leave for a quieter castle where she can conduct her affairs more quietly while still watching over the princess.

“Where is this castle?” Lady Sophie asks, rather tactfully turning to Sinead rather then the irate princess.

“In the west,” Sinead responds quietly. “I do not know much more than that.”

“Should we begin packing?” Lady Teodora questions uncertainly.

“Oh yes, immediately,” Natalie orders, then adding, “except you two- Lady Holt and Lady Rosenbloom.”

“Pardon?” Amy utters rather unthinkingly.

“ _ His Grace _ ,” the princess snorts, “thinks it best that you two stay here for your next mistress.”

“May I ask who that is?” Sinead asks, equally dumbfound.

Natalie smirks. “The queen-to-be,” is all she says before flouncing out of the room.

Amy turns to Sinead after the princess leaves. “Is she speaking of…?” She trails off.

Sinead shrugs, not making eye-contact with Amy. “I believe so- the betrothal pact between His Grace and the Lady Cara must have been sealed.”

* * *

  
  


_ It is the king who ordered that I remain while the others go _ . 

The thought does not escape Amy’s mind, even after she is formally dismissed from the princess’s service and returns to her chambers.

It makes sense that Sinead should stay; She is the senior-most lady to Princess Natalie, and can help with training the queen’s new ladies once they arrive.

But why Amy?

The only answer she can think of is equal parts gratifying and terrifying, but she does not want to dwell on what it means- what  _ she  _ means… to the king.

“What will you do with all this spare time, my lady?” Nellie asks from where she is dusting the furniture.

Amy looks up from the letter she is carefully composing.

“I do not think I will have much spare time, as my new mistress is to be Lady Cara Pierce.”

“So they  _ are  _ to be wed,” Nellie says flippantly, and Amy regards her maid with a mixture of fondness and amusement.

“Is there anything you do not know, Nellie?”

Nellie responds archly, “only if you do not want me to, your Ladyship,” earning her an appreciative laugh from Amy.

“Actually,” Amy says some moments later, “I wanted to ask you, what do you think of the war?”

“Well,” Nellie says carefully, turning to face her, “it has not been declared yet, has it?”

“Is it a very bad thing if it does get formally declared?” Amy questions, and Nellie’s face immediately falls.

“The people do not want war, my lady, and neither do I.”

“But what of vengeance?” Amy presses. “What of conquest and glory?”

Nellie snorts. “That is what you nobles say. Us common folk cannot afford such things- after all, it is the common man’s blood that pays for the rich man’s conquest. The people do not desire war, my lady. They only wish to live.”

_ She is right _ .

What do the common people of this kingdom care for such grand ideals? They would be satisfied with food, a job, and a roof over their heads. Is the king really about to ignore all this and launch a war under false pretenses?

_ But then _ , a small voice whispers inside Amy’s head,  _ would you? _

“Nellie, do you remember what we spoke of some days ago?” Amy asks abruptly.

Nellie carefully sets aside the duster before coming forward.

“Yes my lady,” she replies, uncharacteristically somber. “I do.”

Amy seals the letter before handing it to Nellie, who tucks it in her bodice so not to arouse the suspicions of the guards who stand outside her doors every day now. 

“Then,” Amy says quietly, “you have your first assignment.”

* * *

  
  


Lord Eisenhower Holt corners Ian as he is exiting the great hall.

“Your Grace,” he says, sounding oddly subdued, “I have some news regarding our troops.”

Ian inclines his head and motions for the general of his armies to speak.

“We do not have enough soldiers to launch an invasion of this size and strength,” Lord Holt says, hurrying to keep up with the king.

“Is that all?” Ian says, not at all paying attention to the man, but rather, focused on his destination.

“But sire!” Lord Holt splutters. “We cannot launch the campaign with this amount of soldiers!”   
Ian sighs irritably. “Then you will do whatever it takes to get the men you need.”

“Like what?” Lord Holt rather dumbly asks, and Ian is now ten seconds from throttling his own general.

“Announce a conscription!” Ian seethes. “Extend it to every able-bodied man in this kingdom if need be- for god’s sake, man, must I spell everything out?”

He barely hears Lord Holt mutter his apologies before he slinks away.

Ian finally arrives at his destination, his late father’s private bedchambers. He had to wait for an opportune moment so that his mother, who occupied the neighboring rooms, would not be suspicious if she saw him ransacking his father’s room.

The truth is, he thinks as he survey’s the old king’s chambers, he does not have any idea what he is looking for.

He begins to search every table, every cupboard, and every possibly-hidden corner of the bedchamber. What little items remain are completely innocuous- Vikram was anything if not fastidious and organized in his lifetime. When Ian comes up with nothing, he turns his attention to his father’s desk, an identical copy of which is in the King’s Closet- a private room the sovereign uses to conduct affairs of state. He similarly searches every drawer, every nook and cranny of the desk, until he finally finds what he is looking for: a loose, wooden panel in the back of one of the drawers.

With bated breath, he slides the panel aside-

Only to reveal nothing.

Ian groans, falling back in the chair with disappointment.

Even the chair is the same as the one downstairs, he notes, and then frowns.

Could it be…?

He rushes out of his father’s rooms, not even paying attention to the courtiers that hastily part for him as he makes his way through the castle halls. Finally, he arrives at his Closet and slams the doors shut behind him for privacy. Ian goes to his desk and opens the same exact drawer that contained the sliding panel pushes it aside, revealing a secret compartment-

That contains a sheaf of papers.

Ian carefully pulls them out and unties the ribbon before reading the title:

“ _ Change to the Order of Succession by Order of His Grace King Vikram I of the Madrigal Kingdom _ ”.

It’s dated mere days before the king had passed away.

Ian frantically rifles through the first pages, containing mostly the necessary legal precedents needed to make such a change, and finally arrives at the final page. It reads:

_ The Current Order of Succession is as follows: _

_ In the event of the death of Vikram I, or his incapacity to carry out the necessary duties of a monarch, his son, Prince Ian, will assume the throne and all such duties. Barring his ability or the ability of his male heirs to succeed to the throne, then any male heir of his daughter, Princess Natalie, may assume the throne. _

_ Amendment to the Order of Succession, as per King Vikram I: _

_ Should the direct line of Vikram I end, then let the throne be passed onto Amelia Rosenbloom (née Cahill), Lady of Thornhill Manor and former Princess of the Madrigal Kingdom, and her heirs.  _

He rereads the amendment. His eyes then scan the bottom of the page, which was yet to be signed when the king had passed away.

Had his father not realizes the symbolic meaning of restoring a Cahill to the line of succession? What had he been thinking in his last weeks on this Earth?

Ian’s blood runs cold. 

_ Is this the betrayal? _


	10. Chapter 10

Nathaniel Babbitt is not a gardener by trade.

Well, if he’s being entirely honest, he doesn’t exactly have a trade, save general mischief-making and casual mayhem with the potential to become more than just casual.

Nevertheless, circumstances had forced him to seek an occupation, and he had been told a position of a gardener was… most desirable.

So he had made the long journey to St. Lucian’s Court, and as luck would have it (not actual luck- simply a well-placed blow to the right head, but never mind that), a position had opened up. So now, he is being paid a meager sum to perform several hours back-breaking labor a day because the princess has just arrived and everything needs to look perfect for her.

It’s now well into the afternoon, and Nathaniel’s decided to sneak off for a short (read:  _ long _ , because it’s terribly hot and sticky outside) break. There is a secluded path that leads into a thicket that the gardeners have yet to tackle, and he’s found some respite there from the heat in the past. 

He ensures nobody followed him before gingerly tugging his boots off, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and laying on the grass, basking in the coolness of the ground even as the sun continues ot beat down upon him. 

He’s just about dozed off when he is awakened by the sound of a voice- a female voice.

A rather irritated female voice that, strangely, seems to be talking to no one else.

“- Absolutely  _ hate _ \- horrid, the whole lot of them-”

He turns his head and squints in the mid-afternoon sunlight before calling out, “Are you talking to me, Miss?”

The woman-  _ noblewoman _ , he realizes within seconds- startles and whirls around, clearly unaware of anyone else in the general vicinity, and relaxes only a fraction when she spots him.

He’s blind if he doesn’t notice her frankly appreciative gaze raking across his well-defined arms, but then, he isn’t exactly stopping himself from looking either.

_ She’s pretty _ . The thought itself is rather dumb (really, can he do no better that  _ pretty _ ?), but she has cinnamon skin, jet-black tresses, huge amber eyes, and an extraordinarily haughty demeanor for someone ogling at the help.

“You will address me as  _ Your Highness _ , gardener,” the woman snaps suddenly, clearly having recovered her wits, and Nathaniel’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch. 

_ So this is the princess _ . Somehow, Nathaniel had imagined her to be older, and perhaps more shrewish like Isabel Kabra, if he were being entirely honest.

And now, faced with the petite, imperious princess, he should probably mutter his apologies and hastily retreat-

But then again, obsequiousness has never really been his style.

“Perhaps I could help Your Highness with whatever plagues her,” Nathaniel suggests boldly. 

“And how on earth could  _ you  _ possibly help?” the princess asks rather snottily.

“Well, Your Highness,” Nathaniel says, completely straight-faced, “us gardeners have quite the talent for taking on the  _ thorniest  _ of matters.”

A disbelieving giggle escapes her, clearly despite her better judgement. “Was that supposed to be a joke, gardener?”

He grins. “It’s Nathaniel, Your Highness, and yes, if it pleases you.”

She eyes him appraisingly. “Hm, well now that I have been saddled with your presence,  _ Nathaniel _ -” 

“-Saddled?” Nathaniel squawks inelegantly, knowing he has no right to be outraged in front of the princess, but still, she has  _ chosen  _ to remain with him.

Princess Natalie plows on, “-You might as well show me around the gardens so I may see what improvements are needed.”

“Improvements?” He parrots dumbly. 

“Yes,” the princess says haughtily, “I’ve been told I have quite the discerning eye when it comes to matters of horticulture.”

Nathaniel looks dubiously at her. “Have you?” 

“I personally oversaw a team of gardeners to plant my own garden in Castle Kabra,” she sniffs. and then adds pointedly, “besides, I hardly need to present my credentials to  _ you _ .”

Luckily, her words don’t sting him the way they were probably meant to. Nathaniel only nods thoughtfully. “Can’t really argue with that, Your Highness.”

Nathaniel leads the princess into the area of the gardens and watches as Princess Natalie’s gaze roves over the general disarray. He suddenly feels the need to defend himself and his fellow gardeners.

“Erm, we have mostly been tasked with clearing out all the overgrown plants. St. Lucian’s Court has not been occupied for in some time, apparently,” he attempts to explain, but Princess Natalie seems preoccupied by her own concerns.

“I  _ knew  _ my brother sent me someplace wretched on purpose,” the princess mutters under her breath. 

“And is that whom you were referring to as  _ horrid  _ some time ago?” Nathaniel can’t help but ask. 

The princess turns to look at him. “You are quite nosy for a gardener,” she says, but there is no malice in her voice. No, there almost seems to be… amusement.

“Or perhaps,” Nathaniel says, completely straight-faced, “you are not accu- _ stem _ ed to us gardeners as a whole.”

“I’m beginning to think you gardeners’ chief talent is wordplay rather than work,” Princess Natalie says drolly, causing him to laugh at her unexpected jest.

“That was one of my better ones!” he jokingly protests, belatedly tacking on a, “Your Highness”.

“Very well,” the princess says after some time as the continue to take a turn around the gardens, in a tone that suggests she is making a great concession, “I shall tell you what has been plaguing me. It is my ladies.”

“Your ladies?” Nathaniel frowns. He had been expecting something… more interesting, but he’ll take any scrap of information the princess deigns to hand over.

“I had to escape them. I fear they are truly insipid, and I can’t bear to spend any more time with them."

"Which is why you have chosen to confide in a humble gardener?" Nathaniel can’t help but asks wryly and gesture to himself.

"Well," Natalie sniffs, " _ you've  _ somehow managed to show depth of character."

"High praise indeed, my lady.”

"You know, I could have you thrown in prison for such insolence,” she points out, deadpan. 

"And yet you haven’t… thus far," he muses, grinning rather infuriatingly.

The princess studies him for a long moment.

“No,” she says finally, a sharp, predatory grin taking over her features, somehow rendering them even prettier. “I have a better use for you.”

“You… do?” The bravado in Nathaniel’s voice up to this point completely falters. 

“Yes,” the princess says, striding ahead briskly. “I shall oversee the tending of these gardens personally, and you shall act as my liaison with the gardeners.”

And with that, she leaves. 

As he watches her retreating figure, Nathaniel doesn’t know whether to be elated or fearful. 

* * *

  
  


Eisenhower Holt is once more in front of the king’s desk, and Ian is already dreading this conversation, for as capable of a military man the general is, he is a positively infuriating conversationalist.

“Lord Holt,” Ian addresses his general, “you wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the general blusters. “I have received report of a most alarming nature: Some towns in the South have refused to send every able-bodied man are instead revolting outrightly against the conscription- and I wish to send troops to meet them!”

Ian sighs.  _ Here we go _ .

“What is the nature of these revolts?”

“They apparently do not like being  _ forced  _ into service- pah!” Holt snorts. “I would gladly give up my arm and leg for king and country!”

“And  _ why  _ do you wish to use military force against them?” Ian questions, choosing to ignore that particular tirade. 

“Because they are traitors! Obstructionists!” Holt seethes, but Ian knows better- Holt is most likely more upset about his inability to excerpt control over this situation rather than the perceived treachery of the people. 

“Have you ever thought, Holt,” Ian says slowly, as if speaking to a child, “that perhaps the people might not be so beholden to us if we started attacking them left and right?”

Holt looks wearily at him. “Your Grace, I do not pretend to be an expert on matters of state-”  _ ha _ , Ian internally scoffs, “- but we cannot be seen to look weak against the enemy-”

“Our enemy,” Ian interrupts firmly, “being the  _ Vespers _ , whom we are fighting a war against, and not the people.”

“But sire,” Holt says, “if you allow this to continue, then we will  _ have  _ no war which, surely, you do not want?”

“Of course I desire war-” Ian says smoothly. “-merely not against my own subjects. But I am not insensible. Have soldiers blockade all roads to and from those towns. I will not have the revolts spread. In the meanwhile, I shall come up with a more permanent solution.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Holt mutters and stomps out

“You can come out now- Holt is gone,” Ian calls, and Aleksander Spasky emerges from the seeming shadows with a look of pure relief.

“Am I done for the day, Spasky?” Ian questions his advisor, his mind wandering to Amelia Rosenbloom. He had started the habit of meeting her for long walks in the gardens, and he was itching to get out of his stuffy chambers and for the company of Lady Rosenbloom. 

“Erm,” Spasky looks at him uneasily, something Ian is seeing a lot more of these days, mostly to his displeasure.

“What is it?” Ian groans. 

“There are some… matters to discuss.”

At Ian’s impatient look, Spasky hastens. “Firstly, the Lady Cara has arrived in the castle, very quietly as you said. Most of court does not even know she is here.”

“Good,” is all Ian says.

“May I… ask why, sire?”

“Why what?”

“Why the lack of fanfare? The Lady Cara is, after all, to be your wife and future queen.”

“I am still unsure of whether I want to marry her. If I don’t, she can be sent back just as quietly.”

“But sire! What about all the talks, the dowry negotiations-”

“-And what of her dowry?” Ian interrupts. “Has it arrived as well?”

“Yes. And along with it are several guards. Apparently, Lord Pierce has instructed them not to leave until a formal wedding date has been announced.”

“Shrewd man,” Ian comments, and Spasky snorts.

“That is putting it lightly, sire, but lucky for you,” he adds, “court has hardly noticed any of this, because they are occupied with another matter.”

“Which is?”

“Your mother. There are rumors that she does not support your war, perhaps because of her blood ties to the Vespers.”

“Let the people talk,” Ian rolls his eyes. “I have better things to do than to hear their mindless twittering.”

“But does she?” Spasky presses. “ _ Does  _ she support your efforts, then?”

“My mother is a mere dowager queen, and hardly has the power to say otherwise.”

“Perhaps you should speak with her.”

“I will do nothing of the sort,” Ian says sharply, his mind wandering to his recent findings in this very room, the succession papers his father had secretly drafted before his untimely demise- a demise that Ian is beginning to think is far less of a coincidence by the day. 

“Very well sire.” 

Spasky leaves.

Ian waits a few minutes before he rises and goes to the doors to peak outside. He sees one of his guards stationed near the doors.

“Guard, come here,” Ian commands, and the guard, who seems barely his own age, steps forward.

“Yes, Your Grace?” He asks in halting tones, clearly nervous to be addresses by his sovereign.

“I want you to find the royal physician- do you know where he resides?” Ian questions impatiently, and the guard frantically nods.

“Good. I want you to find him, and tell him the king has summoned him to his private chambers. Can you do that?”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard says eagerly, but Ian is not done. 

“And most importantly, do not tell  _ anyone  _ of this,” he warns.

The guard then leaves. 

* * *

  
  


That evening, Nellie enters the chambers with a small, secretive smile that answers Amy’s questioning look almost immediately.

“You have the reply?” She does not attempt to hide her excitement as Nellie reaches for her apron pocket. Just as she does so, a loud, crisp knock on the door startles the both of them.

Nellie hurries to open the door, and one of the king’s attendants steps inside, giving a low, flourishing bow to Amy. He has in his hand some sort of cushion with velvet draped over it, hiding its contents.

“What can we do for you, sire?” Amy asks genially, while Nellie eyes the covered item with some curiosity. 

“My lady,” he says, “I have been asked by His Grace to deliver this gift to you. His Grace would like to bestow a token of his affection and esteem upon your Ladyship.”

He pulls back the velvet covering with a flourish to reveal an enormous necklace set with the largest rubies and pearls she has ever seen, all inlaid in gold with a gold chain to match.

Amy’s eyes widen at the sheer size of the stones and the gaudiness of it all. Surely, the king does not expect her to  _ wear _ -

_ Ah _ , Amy thinks sardonically,  _ but he does _ . After all, what better way of marking a woman as the king’s than by bestowing upon her pretty jewels? As if their near-daily walks weren’t enough-

Nevertheless, she must give some show of modesty.

So Amy pitches her voice soft and disbelieving when she says, “I could not possibly accept such a generous gift from His Grace. I fear I am unworthy of this-” she attempts to hide a scoff- “lovely necklace.”

It seems the attendant is pleased by her words, and Amy knows he will report this back to his master.

“His Grace warned me that the Lady Rosenbloom was an exceedingly virtuous woman-” the attendant says smugly, “-which is why he said I could not leave the lady’s chambers until she accepted his gift.” 

Amy sighs theatrically and nods her head. “Very well, His Grace gives me no choice- Nellie?” Nellie hurries forward and takes the necklace from the attendant. Amy sweeps her hair to the side as Nellie fastens the heavy jewels around her neck.

Amy turns back to the attendant. “Please tell His Grace that I am honored to have received such magnificent jewels from him, and adore them immensely.”

The attendant bows and leaves.

Nellie bursts into laughter the second the doors close.

“My lady!” She gasps. “The look on your face-”

“-It is quite horrific, is it not?” Amy chuckles. “The size  _ alone _ -”

“-Perhaps His Grace is of the school of thought that bigger is better?” Nellie suggests cheekily, 

“Oh god,” Amy chokes out, part-horrified and part-amused, “Nellie, you mustn’t-”

“-And yet, I do,” Nellie smiles self-satisfiedly, before slipping a letter out of her apron pocket and handing it to Amy. She gives her a final wink before curtsying and slipping out of the chambers.

The moment Amy is alone, she breaks the clumsy seal of the letter- a scrap of paper, really- that bears only two words:

_ It is done _ .

First she feels relief- sweet, heady relief at what it means, that it has all gone into motion and-

Tears spring to Amy’s eyes as she studies the words hungrily- brief and unsentimental they may be, but it is proof- proof that-

The door is banged open, and Amy hastily stows the scrap away into one of the many drawers of her escritoire.

It’s Lord Rosenbloom.

“So you are in our chambers for once, Wife.” 

There is an accusation somewhere in there, but Amy is unsure what it is.

She frowns slightly. “So I am.”

“I suppose the king has tired of you for the day.”

When she does not reply, he seems to take her silence for surprise, and lets out a slurred laugh. “You think I cannot see what has been going on since the moment you set foot in court?” He asks mockingly.

He steps unsteadily towards her until she can smell the sour alcohol on his breath. His eyes fall on the heavy jewels still fastened around her neck, and he scoffs. “How sweet,” he muses, his fingers tracing over her décolletage. “The king has quite literally  _ collared  _ you.”

Amy jerks away from him. “You are drunk,” she says flatly.

“Sober enough to speak the truth,” he corrects with an uncharacteristic sharpness. “And the truth,” he hisses,” the truth, dear wife, is that you are nothing but a  _ whore _ , one I have no intention of ever touching again.” 

Amy’s eyes widen in shock. How long has her husband been harboring this resentment, this rage? It cannot be easy to be seen as a cuckold in court, and yet-

_ Strange _ , she thinks, a little part of her darkly amused,  _ and to think I was called a virtuous lady mere minutes ago _ .

Well, if it is the men of this world that shape perception, then who is she to refuse their labels?

“Then perhaps you should find someone else to tend to your needs,” Amy says with meanness that she didn’t know she possessed, shocking herself by how  _ brazen  _ she sounds-

But there is no going back. In that moment, whatever cordiality once existed between husband and wife is no more. She has as good as admitted to being the king's mistress, and told her husband to seek his own mistress. 

“Yes,” Lord Rosenbloom finally says after a shocked silence, recoiling sharply, “perhaps I should.”

Amy only feels relief watching him walk away. 


End file.
